It smelled like juniper. Proton inhaled deeply as his eyelids peeled apart from each other, dry and sticky. The world was firm and grounded, and light filtered in through a window just next to him. He let out a small groan as he shifted under oddly heavy blankets, feeling his bones crack satisfyingly as he stretched his limbs out, then sat up. The blankets pooled around his waist as he looked around the room that decidedly wasn't his—or it was, but only twice since his promotion. The familiar rustic wood of his room at Giovanni's mountain cabin met him, and confusedly, he strained his memory to figure out when, exactly, he had come here. There wasn't much in his head, at the moment; the last thing he remembered with any clarity was the dark and eerie lab beneath the wreckage of the Cinnabar Pokemon Mansion. Everything after that was fuzzy.
He frowned and briefly searched the room for any possible reminders, but besides his packed bag sitting against the wardrobe and the incense burning on the desk, there was nothing particularly out of place. His stomach grumbled loudly and angrily, and all of a sudden he realized how hungry he was. He hadn't been that hungry in a long, long time. There had to be food here. Some kind of snack. Eager to eat, he swung his legs out of the bed, but paused, his feet hovering uncertainly over the floor. Pieces of his memory flashed in his mind: scraping on the door. Haunting wails. His frown deepened, and he set his feet onto the rug. Nothing. He stood up and dressed himself in his street clothes, then tiptoed out of his room and down the stairs. No noise; no one else home? He couldn't imagine Giovanni would let him here by himself. Someone was bound to be somewhere.
Crossing into the kitchen, he made his way straight to the fridge and yanked the door open, leaning on his palms as he stuck his head in to look. Noodles. Salad. Some kind of grilled beef? Pie. Glorious, glorious pie. He enthusiastically grabbed tupperware and stacked them in his arms, the gluttonous beast in his stomach roaring with anticipation. He was just closing the door when he heard, faintly, the flip of a sheet of paper. Life. It had come from the dining room.
His tongue stuck between his teeth as he concentrated on balancing the leftovers stacked high in his arms, Proton shouldered the door into the dining room open and popped his head through. Petrel was seated at the table in his usual pajamas, his forehead leaning heavily on one hand as he poured over his work, and a chewed pen clenched tightly in the other. His ditto was sliding off the table like a slinky, but he paid the pokemon no mind; instead, he glanced up as the door clicked, and as his black, soulless eyes landed on Proton, he sat upright in his seat, relief breaking over his turbulent expression.
"Proton," he said, "you're awake."
"Heya, Pete," Proton answered him with a cheeky grin, "you know me. I don't stay down for long." He navigated to the spot next to Petrel at the end of the table, where he could easily look him in the eye, and sat gracefully, plopping his hoard onto the wood. He was most excited for the pie: he immediately pulled the lid away and grabbed a slice like it was a pizza, taking a huge bite from it. It wasn't a sweet pie, but savory, filled with a mixture of meat and potato, and it was heavenly. He devoured the slice in three big bites, and not realizing how absolutely starving he'd been, immediately took a second.
"Easy, there, linoone," Petrel teased him, "don't hurt yourself. I don't want to spend another few weeks taking care of you, I have shit to do."
"Weeks?" Proton repeated incredulously, "holy shit. I thought it'd been, like... days. At the most."
"You were pretty fucked up."
He felt like he would have remembered that, and again he strained himself to think. There were more snippets: feeling like he was dying. Cold sweats. Tender touches. He remembered, at some point, sitting against the wall, and the Silph Scope heavy on his head. Petrel seemed to realize what he was thinking, and he grimaced.
"Boss took it," he admitted, "sorry. I had to tell someone. I thought..." He hesitated over the thought, then shook his head. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. He allowed me to bring you here. To recover."
"Is he pissed?"
"No more than usual."
So yes. Extremely yes. Proton averted his gaze, staring down into his pie as he carefully considered the situation. He was surprised that he even woke up, in this case. Even that he woke up in a comfortable bed, and not rotting in one of the cells in HQ's bowels, preserved just well enough to suffer when Giovanni finally came to pass judgment. He recalled the day of his promotion—he hadn't thought about that in months, now. Kuang and Tachibana both screwed Giovanni over, and whether it was in a worse way or not was difficult to determine. The Silph Scope had been a top priority, but in the case of his former competitors, Giovanni had him execute them in a neat and orderly manner. And as well, they had been easily replaced. Proton recalled hearing no fuss in the halls over it. Everyone whispered for a few hours, scrambled to take their positions, then moved on like sharpedo waiting for their next feeding hour. Proton liked to think that now, after a year and then some, he was not so easily replaced.
Satisfied with his conclusion, Proton took another slice of pie and jammed as much into his mouth as possible, chewing slowly as he wondered what sort of reprimand he'd earned himself, this time. Hell, Petrel had been in on it. Maybe they'd get locked in, again. He could use a week to unwind. There wouldn't be much to do, but they would have each other. Something about that sparked something else in his brain, and as his slow chewing coming to a stop, he swallowed, his attention turning curiously back to his friend.
"Did you mean it?" he asked, and Petrel, who had since returned to his work, quirked an eyebrow but didn't look up.
"Hmm?" he prompted absently, "mean what?"
Proton shifted nervously in his seat. "When... when you said you'd take me out if I got better. Did you mean that, or was it just...?"
"You remember that?" Petrel laughed. He tapped his pen against the table, and finally just gave up, pushing his stack of papers away before he turned in his seat to look Proton up and down.
"Yeah," Proton confirmed, "you said it... every time, I think. Every time you came in to check on me."
It was hard to tell what Petrel was thinking as silence came between them, and the longer Proton held his breath, the more confusing it was. His amusement seemed genuine. He even seemed a little confused, himself. Maybe it had been a lie, but what did Petrel stand to gain? Cheap humor? He wasn't above an easy laugh, though. Maybe, Proton thought, it really had just been bait. He felt the embarrassment flush across his cheeks, and just as he was about to look away again, Petrel's eyes caught his.
They used to bother him, once upon a time. It had been uncomfortable to hold Petrel's gaze for too long. Once Proton had gotten used to his intense stare, he began to notice the little things. The things that just... drew him in. Dark and deep, always hiding something sly just under the surface. The way they would light with devious mirth, or the way they would crinkle at the corners when he gave his rare, genuine smile. Proton could never bear to look away first, and this time, as Petrel smiled and his eyes crinkled, Proton's heart leaped into his throat.
"Yeah," Petrel answered him, his voice gentle and soothing, "yeah, I meant it. You and me. There's this restaurant in Saffron—it's really nice. Have-to-wear-a-tie kind of nice, you know?" Proton laughed in reply.
"I dunno 'bout that," he snickered, "really, could you imagine me in a tie? Man, Boss is lucky I wear my uniform, most days."
"Oh, come on. It's real nice. Flattering light, great food... Super romantic."
Petrel, his eyes half-lidded, leaned across the corner of the table, and his head tilted. Proton laughed again and met him for a brief kiss, then just as quickly shoved him away by the face.
"Don't tease me," he said, "I'll believe it when I see it. All that bitching before, 'why would we need that?' That's what you said, wasn't it?"
"Well," Petrel answered him patiently, "that was before you nearly fucking died. What, I can't have a change of heart?" With a grunt, he began to push himself from his chair, his face twisting as Proton heard a pretty audible pop, and the younger man winced. Through rough breaths, his friend motioned towards the corner, and a sinking feeling hit Proton's stomach as he caught sight of the cane leaning in the corner.
"Aw, Pete," he sympathized, "really? It's gotten that bad?
"Of course it's gotten that bad, dipshit. I had to carry your scrawny ass out of HQ and all the way up the goddamn stairs."
Proton brought the cane, and with an approximation of a grateful look, Petrel leaned his weight onto it and began to limp towards the kitchen. Proton followed closely behind him, hovering like he had in Cinnabar and still just as uncertain.
"Maybe you just need to bite the bullet and get a chair, man," he advised.
"I don't need one," Petrel spat back at him, "I'm not entirely fucking useless."
"A chair wouldn't make you useless, asshole, ain't no shame in using a tool."
Petrel grimaced, his lip curling into a sneer, but rather than indulge the conversation, made his way painstakingly to the fridge. Proton leaned around him to peer in with him, his eyes darting between different vegetables and fruits before landing on the raw meat thawing in one of the drawers. He was no cook—could hardly imagine what sort of work it would take to turn any of it into a meal, or if Petrel was even feeling well enough to make anything. Maybe it would be easier to speed into town for takeout, but he didn't expect his bike would be here, and despite his one ill-advised attempt to take Petrel's car in the past, he had never been so lucky as to sit behind the wheel of the eldorado. Petrel probably wasn't up for a long drive, anyways.
"We could just eat leftovers," Proton suggested, and Petrel quirked an eyebrow down to him. Proton huffed. "Nah, I mean it. Hell, I'd settle for noodles. Just somethin' easy."
"But I've missed you," his friend (boyfriend?) quickly countered, uncharacteristically quiet. It was enough, though, sending butterfree fluttering through Proton's still achingly empty stomach. Petrel missed him. Petrel admitted to missing him. It must have been a cold day in hell—Petrel never admitted to anything. And he was here, with Proton. Alone. Both of them. How could Proton ever say no?
"Hey, don't gimme that look," he casually tried to brush it off, "just thought maybe you could use a break. You know me, I'm happy to eat anything." At that, Petrel laughed, his face finally breaking into a sly grin, and he shut the fridge in favor of leaning back onto one of the counters.
"Oh, of course I know," he laughed back at him, "and as long as you can still swallow, I think we're doing just dandy. Now go on, scoot. Get yourself cleaned up, or something. I'll see you for dinner."
He wasn't coming? Proton pouted and quite nearly hug his heels in as Petrel pushed him towards the hall. He'd just woken up, and it's not like they'd gotten to spend a ton of time hanging around in Cinnabar. He wanted to drool over the smells and lick the spoon. He was the dedicated spoon-licker! Petrel didn't seem particularly bothered by this break in the chain of command, and the instant Proton's feet crossed the threshold, he slammed the door shut behind him, and to pour salt on the wound, Proton heard the knob click locked.
"Man," he whined, "c'mon. That's bullshit." He jiggled the handle. Nothing. His pout deepened, but with too much dignity to sit around clawing at the door like a desperate meowth, he instead ran a hand through his matted hair, and grimacing at the oily texture supposed he actually ought to wash up. He shuffled down the halls towards the washroom, taking comfort in the knowledge that at the very least, the Sakaki family had spared no expense in the cabin's construction.
A lot of the lights were off, but that was to be expected when it was only the two of them there. Even so, something about the shadows made strange shivers slide up and down his spine, and he shuffled more quickly despite his still frozen and protesting muscles. It was a good sort of ache, and in an effort to ignore the halls and rooms left dark, he focused on stretching his arms out as he went. Hell, it felt amazing. He could only imagine how good a nice, hot soak would feel.
He was a little surprised to find it was already starting to get dark when he poked his head out the door. The sun hadn't quite set, and probably wouldn't still for a good few minutes yet. Proton, however, intended to stay out until he evolved into a prune, and with the knowledge that he was balls at seeing in the dark in the middle of nowhere, frowned and reached for one of the switches by the door to flick on some of the outdoor lights. Nothing. Huh. He flipped each switch on the panel; still nothing. That was strange. He helped change a few of these bulbs over the holidays. At least some of them ought to still be good.
"Dammit," he mumbled to himself, "guess I'll check the breaker..."
Which would be all the way down in the basement. He could use the walk, at least. Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps back past the kitchen, then turned the corner. Something already smelled delicious, and he could hear Petrel chopping away with one of his big knives. Just the thought of food made Proton's stomach rumble, and he fought the urge to sneak inside to nibble off the cutting board.
"You better not be coming back!" Petrel shouted to him as his steps passed by, and Proton rolled his eyes.
"I'm just checkin' the panel!" he shouted back. "Jeez... give me some fuckin' credit, why don'tcha..."
"What was that?"
"Nothin'!"
Just as always, the stairs down into the basement creaked and groaned with each step he made downwards. It was something he found deeply unsettled Archer and Ariana, both of whom tried to avoid going down whenever possible. Proton, on the other hand, didn't really mind it at all. Basements were supposed to be dark and creepy, and this one was so spacious it never so much as triggered his claustrophobia. Even better, there was so much junk down there it was like uncovering a lost treasure every time he took a look around. There was always something new to goof around with.
At the bottom of the steps, he flicked on the single dim bulb then turned sharply to have at the breaker panel. Just as he suspected, a few switches were off—including the control for the outdoor lighting. He shouldn't have been too surprised. Giovanni could be so cheap that if anything he should have expected more to be off. With a dramatic sigh, he switched on what he needed, then firmly shut the panel closed.
...and of course he had to go on a treasure hunt before he left! It was a little bit stupid, but it made him feel kind of like a kid again, rummaging around through all the things left down here over the years. Some of it was useful and recent: cleaning supplies, household things that had no storage upstairs. Some of it was left down there seemingly to be forgotten. Some of it he could only wonder why—some kind of black and white charm, a thick pair of glasses in an equally thick black plastic frame, a box of Star Trek comics, hell, an entire damn fishing pole, all of it under years' worth of dust in one of the back corners. It all seemed like junk, Proton supposed, but laying with them was an expensive-looking watch and a real jade hairpin, with one end masterfully carved in the shape of a haxorus's head, both with more dust than the other things. He couldn't imagine why Giovanni would leave something so valuable down here to waste away. When Proton checked it all at that moment, still nothing had been moved from its place. It was curious.
He wandered around more shelves. Tarps. The axe he found his first day there. A saw. Paint tins. The half-melted frisbee Archer's houndoom had set on fire over Christmas. Rest in pieces, little frisbee. His stomach grumbled. He couldn't hang around all night. He was taking one last quick look around to see if anything new made its way down when it actually ended up being an empty spot that gave him the most pause. Frowning, Proton approached the familiar shelf he had caught himself at two Christmases ago, when Lance had been invited to the cabin and he had been eager to plot his subsequent murder. (That was still on his to-do list, by the way.) The rattata poison used to be there, didn't it? He hadn't heard anything about an infestation. He would have thought the others would've kicked up a fuss about it if there was. Maybe it had been outdated. Could poison go bad?
As odd as it seemed, he supposed he would just have to ask one of the others about it later, because his stomach rumbled angrily. The pie hadn't been enough. He really was famished. Eager to be let back into the kitchen, he sped his way to the outdoor bath to flick on the light, smiling to himself as every last bulb blinked onto twinkle happily in the rapidly approaching darkness. He shimmied out of his clothes and stashed them in his cubby, then grabbed a washcloth and some soaps to take over the showers. He dragged a stool along with him to plop down on, and took his time sudsing himself up. Old sweat and grime washed away easily under the warm water, and he dragged his fingertips through his unruly hair to break through the tangles. Heat flushed his cheeks as he realized the absolute state he'd been in—what had he even been thinking, pestering Petrel about a date? How needy must he think he was! To wake up, gross, stinking, oily, but so eager to ask if he meant it.
Well... he still said "yes," didn't he?
Butterfree fluttered in his stomach again, and he more viciously tried to untangle his hair, growling under his breath at the few that he had to yank and yank at. He was determined to look nice. Smell nice. It had been so long since they just got to have a quiet night together. He was eager to be the focus of Petrel's attention.
After he rinsed off, he put his things neatly away and went to lower himself into the hot spring. The sky was much darker, now, the sun nearly entirely gone. There was some cloud cover; he didn't expect to see many stars. Maybe the moon would be out, if they were lucky. Large puffs of steam swirled around him as he sank into the delicious heat, and a long and contented breath left him as he sank further and further, letting the water come up to his chin before he leaned his head back and rested. He needed this. He really, really needed this. There was no worry in the world that could follow you into a nice, hot bath.
At some point, he began to doze on and off, and in an effort to keep himself from drowning, he leaned further to rest his elbows firmly on the smooth stone of the walkways. He would drift in and out peacefully, listening to the relaxing sound of the water's movements, of the pokemon out in the woods, of the wind through the trees. He wasn't sure how long it had been when the sound of footsteps woke him again, and sitting upright, he grinned lazily at Petrel as he approached.
"Heeeyyyyy," he said, voice half-slurred with sleep, "this mean what I think it means?"
"Right on the nose," Petrel replied, "you gonna dry up by yourself?"
"I could always use the help."
Proton stretched and cracked his neck, then pulled himself out of the bath, splashing water up onto the dark stone lining the space. Petrel took a step away from the mess of water as it pooled by his feet, scowling as Proton dripped on his pajamas, but Proton ignored this and reached up on his tip-toes to plant a kiss on his jaw, his goatee tickling his cheek. His stomach grumbled again.
"If I wasn't so damn hungry right now, I'd just pull you in with me for some fun," he whispered. Petrel snorted, but he pulled Proton around and leaned his arm around his shoulders, leaning onto him as he began to limp back towards the cabin.
"So we'll eat, then we'll fool around," he promised, "then I'll find some dry fucking clothes."
Proton toweled himself off and wiggled back into his clothes, and together they returned to the dining room, where Petrel even pulled his seat out for him like a proper gentleman. At first, Proton protested—he wanted to help. In fact, he wanted Petrel to sit, because as clearly evidenced by his cane, he wasn't having a great day, and Proton was at least a little bit responsible for that, this time. But, no, Petrel was stubborn. Stared Proton down until he reluctantly sat and had to suffer silently through being treated like an absolute prince. Petrel brought him wine, then a beautiful bowl of his favorite nikujaga with a gorgeously sculpted dome of rice, and how Proton salivated. His thoughts were consumed with the sight and the smell, maybe a bit heavy-handed on the garlic, but too enticing to focus on anything else. He was practically vibrating with anticipation in his seat as he waited for Petrel to come with his own food and wine, and they sat together at the same corner as earlier, not a single pokemon or stack of paperwork to be found. The lights were dim. Petrel even lit a candle.
Gods, Proton was such a sap.
It was like something straight out of a Hallmark movie, and he was the big city boy moving back to learn about love out in the country. They would be entwined and enamored with each other, a perfect union, not alone or outcast or even worrying about whatever the hell Giovanni was going to have done to them for their insolent, hare-brained schemes. Everything would be okay.
"Thanks for the meal," Proton said as he took up his chopsticks to dig in. He began to scoop up meat and veggies, acutely aware of Petrel's intense gaze as he did so. He wondered what was wrong; when he stared like that, he wanted something, sort of like a pokemon. Proton frowned and looked over to him. "What?"
But Petrel merely smiled and turned to his own bowl, carefully cultivating his first bite. Proton's frown deepened as he watched him pick up meat, onion, rice, then delicately pop it into his mouth. Proton shrugged, then raised his own food towards his mouth, pausing to inhale the aroma once more.
It wasn't just garlic, though, was it? It smelled... fishy. A little too fishy for nikujaga. Maybe Proton wasn't some weird, cranky psuedo-chef, but he sure as hell knew what his food was supposed to smell like. And it wasn't just fishy, it was almost rotten fishy. He pulled back from the bite, eying it like it was about to jump off onto the floor and become some weird pokemon. Wait, was it the food that smelled like that, or the wine?
"Is something the matter?" Petrel finally asked, and as Proton looked up in time to see his brow tick ever so slightly, his mind darted from the bowl, to the kitchen, and finally settled down in the basement. He placed his chopsticks gently back down into the bowl, the leaned onto his elbow on the table.
"I was just thinking," he murmured, "you'll be so tired when you finish. Maybe we ought to fool around, first." Without waiting for an answer, he reached to pushed Petrel's bowl and wineglass out of the way, then hopped to sit himself on the table, settling down so his legs straddled either side of Petrel's chair. Before Petrel could protest or even say so much as a word, Proton drew him in with fingers gently cupping the back of his neck and kissed him. It was fervent, almost needy, and greedily they nipped at each other's lips, lapped at each other's tongues.
Their hands reached the wineglass at the same moment.
Proton was quicker in that sense, and he snatched it away by the stem and smashed the top against the edge of the table, lunging with jagged edges still dripping blood-red wine towards Petrel's neck. Petrel, however, was stronger. He grabbed Proton by the wrist, his fingers digging into sensitive tissue and pressure points until he was threatening to break bone, and Proton cried out as he finally was forced to let the glass drop. He lashed out with his foot, kicking the chair out from under him and watching Petrel go sprawling to the floor before he whirled around to grab and smash the other wineglass. He brandished it threatening as he prepared to stab at the neck or the eyes, but the instant he turned, Petrel was gone.
The door to the kitchen was ajar, and he heard the odd-ended thump of Petrel's feet. Growling, Proton launched himself after him, just barely catching the flash of purple turning the corner into the hall. By the time Proton made it to the far door, there was no sign of him anywhere. He'd just vanished without a trace.
"Fuck," Proton huffed out in heaving breaths. His eyes darted around the kitchen, landing sourly on the box of rattata poison on the counter. The fucker. The absolutely asshole. He'd played Proton like a goddamn fool, and the worst part was he should have known better. It's not like he hadn't seen this sort of scenario played out in front of him a thousand and one times. Face setting into a disgusted sneer, he went straight for the knife block and drew out one of the big butcher knives, holding it tightly in his fist and choked up to the blade. Then, eyes and ears alert, he turned down into the hall.
His blood pounded in his ears, but an eerie hush had fallen over the cabin, and no matter how hard he strained, he couldn't make out the usual odd-ended thumping of Petrel's footsteps or even the tap of his cane. It was like he'd just disappeared into thin air. It shouldn't have surprised him, Proton thought as he carefully stalked down the hall, because this wasn't just some grunt he was dealing with.
He liked to think in the year since his promotion that he and Petrel had become pretty close. They lived together, after all. Had lunch in each other's offices nearly every day, dinner when they could. They talked a lot, about a ton of different things—when you got enough beer into Petrel, he would happily talk about the glory days, recount the tales of what it was like to grow up in the halls of HQ.
Proton turned the corner and paused, crouching as he peered into the den. The fireplace was dark and cold, but overhead the fake candles of the stantler horn chandelier faintly glowed and danced. It wasn't enough to illuminate the space entirely, and it sent long, gnarled shadows twisting along the floors and walls. No signs of Petrel.
The only thing he ever refused to talk about, no matter how drunk he was, was the accident, what it was, or how it even happened. It left lasting damage, but just like earlier, any time Proton tried to bring it up Petrel prickled up like a pincurchin. He only knew it from the gaps in the stories Petrel did share. The old newspaper clippings he would dig out and show off from the times he could whip himself around like an ariados on the hunt.
A floorboard creaked unnaturally from back in the hall. Proton darted behind the couch, paused to listen, then flew to press himself between a bookcase and the open doorway. Everything was still again. Proton's fingers flexed against the handle of the butcher knife. He took one cautious step forward, waited, then another.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It came from the direction of the home theater. He leaned right around the corner. He could see the glowing coming from the open door down the darkened hall. It was a trap, he thought viciously, it had to be. He ducked into a linen closet, held his breath. The tapping came again, but it wasn't Petrel's cane. What was it? He rushed down the hall and slid into the theater, taking cover behind the popcorn machine. Petrel wasn't in there, but the projector was on, shining its bright light at the wall and casting its glow outwards. The tapping was the end of a film reel, slapping intermittently against the hard casing.
Something felt familiar about all this, about stalking the halls in search of his friend. Hazy memories danced at the edge of his mind. He was in HQ, following flashes of color. He was in the streets of Goldenrod, chasing movement through fire escapes and over roofs. He was standing on the bridge south of the city, watching the body float down the river. Something so familiar about all of this, even so far back as the day Giovanni brought him to Petrel's dorm.
Something felt wet along the back of his neck, and Proton absently reached to wipe the sweat away. His nose scrunched and he pulled his fingers from the skin with a grimace as he felt something just vaguely acidic and gooey on them. What was...? His eyes widened, and his head snapped back just in time to see the dark blob drop from the ceiling.
It fell against his face with a wet splat, the goo seeping into his nostrils and mouth as he choked and gasped for air, reaching with his free hand to scrape at it. The acid burned against the soft tissue, and he gagged on the strange chemical taste. Every time he tried to spit it out it would come straight back like it had a mind of its own—and in a desperate bid to loose Helix from his face, Proton turned and slammed his face against the wall, then again, feeling the ditto splat and splat again, painting the creature across the wall with a vicious snarl. The goop released, and he scrambled back, sucking in huge breaths as he watched the translucent pink slime drip long strands towards the floor.
"Fuck," he breathed. He felt a little bad. Helix was Petrel's favorite—never put in harm's way, always spoiled. Not so much as experimented on once. But now wasn't the time to go soft.
Click. The lights suddenly went off. Bitch. Swearing quietly to himself, Proton started for the door. He had only taken two steps when that goo latched back onto his shoulders, and he jerked wildly as it suddenly became solid and heavy, long and gangly arms wrapping around his head and neck as shadowy claws raked at his skin. Sharp, gremlin-like feet dug into his back, scraping at his shoulders for purchase as Proton bucked himself again, throwing his back to the wall this time. Helix was quick, hopping out of the way and landing atop his head, slashing at his collarbone, his chest, anything it could reach. Every time Proton got a clear shot it would leap, climb, roll out of the way, screeching and yipping its hyena laughter.
Desperately, Proton swung the butcher knife. It cleaved through one spindly arm, and Helix let out a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream as the limb fell to the ground and returned to goop. It leaped after its own missing body, and Proton took his chance to race over it as it returned to an unstable, slimy state darting out into the hallway and back around to slip into Giovanni's studio. He collapsed under the stairs there, waiting for his heart to still. Helix didn't take long to reform, and only a few seconds after Proton bunkered down, he heard the slithering of an arbok as it passed by the door. That pile of silly putty was a menace.
There wasn't time to sit for long. If Helix was around, Petrel wouldn't be far behind. Stairs would slow him down, at least. Proton took to his feet then quietly crept to the upper floor and back out into the hall.
"Shhh... I know, baby, I know... what did that bad man do to you, huh...?"
It was almost pitch-black in the cabin, now, and Proton could just hardly see his own hand in front of his face. What little light there was from outside streamed in through the windows, and as he crouched and advanced along the landing, he could see the silhouette of Petrel in the den, petting the arbok's head gently as he crooned over it. The memories danced at the edge of Proton's mind again. Standing on the bridge. Watching the body. Laughing. Proton shivered. Setting a trap. He moved forward steadily, reversing his grip on the knife to rattle the spokes of the railing as he took his even steps. Petrel froze, rigid, and snapped towards him like a hunting dog, his dark figure following Proton's movements along the upper floor. Proton watched him just as carefully, and with a smile that neither would see but both, undoubtedly, felt, he flitted off down the hall and into Archer's room.
"You little shit," he heard Petrel laugh from the bottom of the stairs, "you're only delaying the inevitable."
There was no odd-ended thump of feet; Petrel was coming for him, anyways. Proton slipped into Archer's closet and pulled the doors quickly shut, taking quiet breaths as he laid in wait. He was up the stairs quicker than expected; the next time he spoke, Proton could clearly hear him out on the landing.
"Sweetheart," he called out, voice dripping with false emotion he wore as easily as his ditto wore a pokemon's shape, "I'm sorry. Let's stop playing this game. Let's go back downstairs."
Proton's toes flexed, and he raised the butcher knife in preparation to strike. He took one of the jackets hanging from the rod, ready to throw it out as a distraction. While Petrel was occupied, he would get in close and strike. Cleave straight through the neck.
"I really have missed you, you know..."
He could hear his footsteps, now, controlled and quiet. He was in the adjoining bathroom. Proton felt himself coil like a seviper. His hand trembled. Would Petrel haunt him, too?
"I could talk to Master Giovanni," the snake tried to sell to him, "make him change his mind. But you have to come out first, sweetheart. I can't so anything if you won't talk to me."
He came through the door. Proton watched him move. He was still favoring one leg, but he was quicker than Proton had ever seen before, gripping his cane tightly in his hand as he prowled. He paused in the middle of the room, turning his head slowly to search, and that was the moment. Proton was ready.
He burst from the closet and threw the jacket as Petrel turned, then lunged forward, thrusting his knife towards Petrel's throat. He wasn't prepared for Petrel to snatch the jacket out of the air and turn it back on him, using it to tangle his wrist and force the thrust out into open air. Proton snarled and threw a left hook at him, instead, connecting solidly with his cheek and sending him stumbling back a few steps in surprise. He only laughed, pulling the jacket with him as he went, and Proton readied the knife again.
This time it was Petrel who lunged first, and Proton reciprocated by slashing at his arm, but tore instead into nylon of Archer's jacket, and Petrel used the moment to rip the knife from his grasp and toss it to the side. Proton took the opportunity to kick at his knee, right in the spot he knew was weakest, and grinned with satisfaction as Petrel cried out and his leg buckled under him, sending him painfully to the ground.
"You little shit!" Petrel repeated, hissing through clenched teeth, and before Proton could strike again a hand shot to grab him by the throat and squeezed. Suddenly Proton's hands were clawing and scratching at Petrel's fingers to break free before he was cut off from air entirely, but with deceptive strength Petrel stood and forced him back until he could slam him back against the wall, knocking the breath out of him with a pathetic wheeze.
"Petrel," he choked out in a lame attempt at a plea, "P—Pet—" Petrel let out a cold and humorless laugh and pulled him forward just to slam him back again, and Proton groaned through the pain.
"You know," Petrel spat, "you really are a pain the ass. All you ever do is cause me trouble." He could just barely make out his features in the dark. His nose was just inches from Proton's, and he was leaning so their eyes would be level. He could feel his hot breath, stinking like cigarettes, when he spoke, and could smell the cologne he loved to wear when they went out on the town. Proton tapped at his hand and gasped as the squeezing let up just for a moment before doubling down, and his diaphragm spasmed as he struggled to suck in a breath.
"This wasn't my idea, by the way," his friend—boyfriend? Partner?—continued, his head tilting just a tick, "none of this was my idea. Master Giovanni calls the shots. I just do as I'm told. But man... I have to admit. I think I'm going to get a real kick out of this."
Petrel, Proton tried to beg again, but all that came out was a garbled mess of sounds as he choked. He could feel Petrel trembling with excitement. He pressed his forehead to Proton's, their noses bumping, breathing what ought to have been shared breaths as Proton wheezed again. He writhed and struggled under Petrel's grip, only to be slammed back again, and stars exploded in front of his eyes.
"Fuck," Petrel muttered, more to himself now, "it's not the same when I can't see your goddamn eyes. Maybe..." Proton launched a glancing blow to Petrel's shoulder, and unbothered, Petrel grabbed him tightly by the wrist, his fingers digging into the pulse point to feel him start to wither. "No... not the same," he sighed, "whatever. I'm going to take my sweet time with this. I want to make you last."
Suddenly his feet weren't even touching the floor, and he kicked his legs out in a panic, only earning more laughter from his friend. The world was starting to fade away. His movements became sluggish. Just before he could pass out, the grip slackened and air filled his lungs. He gasped and gasped, and Petrel kept talking.
"Do you remember when we first met?" he asked, and it registered to Proton that he sounded oddly, actually, nostalgic. It hadn't been a big deal, he found himself thinking as though that were really the important matter at hand, Giovanni had introduced them. It was as normal a day as any. But seeming to understand what he was thinking, Petrel pressed on to explain himself. "Not when you were promoted—we met long before you were promoted. You don't remember, do you? God, it's been a decade. I knew then, you know? We were kindred spirits."
The grip like a vice returned, squeezing the life out of him, but Proton's struggles were far weaker. His legs twitched as his life flashed before his eyes. Memories on a bridge. Strangling the other boy. Bashing his head on the wood. Shoving the body over. And the whole time, a violet-haired devil whispered in his ear.
"It was always going to be you. And then—and then!" Teeth scraped at his earlobe, and he felt Petrel's smile against his cheek. Something about it made hot, blinding electricity shoot down his spine and his whole body twitched. "Imagine my shock when I see this green-haired punk stalking me all over the goddamn base. I thought you recognized me. And maybe you did."
They were pressed so closely together. So intimate. It was crazy thought to have, all things considered. It was definitely not safe or sane to feel this strange pleasure in the moments before he was murdered. The excitement of the hunt still tickled the back of his neck, his hair standing on end as he slowly began to give in.
"So I did what I had to do, and before you die, I want you to know—everything you've ever been is because of me. Everything you've accomplished, because of me. We were going to take the world by storm, Lance. But what Master Giovanni says goes—and look at you getting off on this, you sick freak. It's a shame you're only going to get to enjoy it once."
The world began to fade again.
Petrel's grip faltered.
The next thing Proton knew, he was gasping for breath on the floor, wheezing and coughing as Petrel swore violently, his hands tangled in his hair as he paced the length of Archer's room. Proton wiped the painful tears from his eyes as Petrel slammed his heel into wall, kicking through plaster before resuming his pacing.
"Petrel?" Proton finally managed to rasp out, and Petrel's only response was to dig a half-crushed cigarette out of his pocket and light up. Its glow was faint—so very faint. But he could see Petrel's dark eyes glisten in its light, and see the way his face twisted with anger and confusion. "Petrel—you—"
"Shut up," Petrel ordered, "I'm sick of hearing you choke." Proton ignored him.
"We can fix things," he coughed out, "you don't have to—"
"I said shut up." Petrel took a drag of his cigarette, eying Proton carefully as he massaged his bruised throat. It wasn't like him to hesitate, Proton thought. Not when a job was on the line. As much as he hated to think of himself as a job—he was still an Executive, dammit—if these were Giovanni's orders, he should have been dead, by now, and not trying to ignore how good it felt to be slammed back against that wall.
Finally, with an aggravated sigh and massaging his temples, Petrel dropped down onto Archer's bed, sneering at his own failure. "I can't do it," he admitted out loud, "fuck. I can't fucking do it." He shot Proton a bitter look and demanded, "what is it about you? Three goddamn decades without any problems, and the second you show up somehow I keep landing my ass in hot water. First Orre, now this whole bullshit with Silph... Boss is going to take it out of me that I couldn't just get you over with."
"We can fix things," Proton repeated, and shakily he pushed himself to his feet, "there's still something left. From Kanda." Petrel raised an eyebrow at him.
"Oh, really?" he deadpanned, "well, go on then. Enlighten me." Proton bit his lip.
"First," he said carefully, and his eyes darted to the spot Petrel had pinned him, "can you do that again?"
And that sick bastard couldn't help but grin right back at him.
"And you're saying... what, precisely?"
Proton stood at attention in front of Giovanni's desk, his eyes lowered deferentially. Petrel stood next to him much the same, both of them dressed in pristinely pressed uniforms. Proton kept his collar zipped up to hide his bruised neck, but in the end, he was thankful for their dull aches and sudden twinges of pain: they were a good reminder not to get too far above himself, and to focus his efforts where they mattered, namely, serving Master Giovanni... who wasn't entirely thrilled with the mess they made of his cabin. But who would also hopefully give them the green light to continue not being dead.
"I'm saying with Kanda's key card, we'll have access to every floor and every room in Silph Co," Proton answered readily, "and with some effort, I can extract his passwords from him, as well. Not only would we be able to retrieve the Masterball prototype, but the source code, as well. I could make you as many as you desired."
Giovanni pursed his lips as he considered this, drumming his fingers against the desk as he looked between the two of them. It was a hard sell. All three of them knew the truth of the Scope situation. Proton had been perfectly rational when he made the decision to steal it out from under the Boss's nose, and it wasn't so much as trying to convince the boss that he wasn't rather than convincing him to just... look the other way. Pretend it was because he'd been sick. But Petrel had agreed to vouch for him, in the end, and although the tension was still built like a fine wall between them, he kept that promise well enough.
"And you're certain the prototype is complete?" Giovanni pressed.
"Yes, sir. Kanda confirmed this for me, himself."
Giovanni sighed and studied the various papers on his desk, all of them relating in some way to the mewtwo, to Silph, to the masterball, to the scope. He was knee-deep in preparations, and Proton hoped that the ultimate goal, the mewtwo itself, would prove far more valuable to the boss than making some petty example out of Proton.
"Very well, Executive," Giovanni finally sighed, "I find your apology refreshing. Certainly, everyone makes mistakes—and you cannot be faulted for losing your faculties in the face of such a powerful psychic-type." He motioned them towards the door. "Both of you take a day to recover, then proceed to the Game Corner and await further instructions. Hopefully we can all just put this little faux pas behind us."
"Thank you, sir." Proton bowed neatly, and Petrel mirrored him. Then, without waiting around for Giovanni to change his mind, one after the other they left, falling into step next to each other as they headed for the elevator.
"I can't believe he went for it," Proton mused as they waited at the elevator doors.
"I can't believe he even heard you out," Petrel added. "Hey, you hungry? I'm famished."
"Starving," Proton agreed, "no rattata poison, this time."
"Come on. Live a little. It's got a great kick to it."
"Fine, but if I start frothing at the mouth you gotta explain it to Boss."
It was strange how quickly everything felt like normal.